«Is this the same game as last night?»
«Of course,» Kruppe replied. «Kruppe has these two men backed to the very wall, in danger of losing their very shirts! It's good to see you again friend Rallick. The lad here,» Kruppe indicated Crokus with a limp hand fingers fluttering, «speaks endlessly of murder above our heads. A veritable downpour of blood! Have you ever heard such nonsense Rallick, Kruppe's friend?»
Rallick shrugged. «Another rumour. This city was built on rumours.»
Crokus scowled to himself. It seemed that no one was willing to answer questions this morning. He wondered yet again what the assassin and Murillio had been talking about earlier; hunched as they'd been over a dimly lit table in one corner of the room, Crokus had suspected some sort of conspiracy. Not that such a thing was unusual for them, though most times Kruppe was at its centre.
Murillio swung his gaze to the bar. «Sulty!» he called out. «You awake?
There was a mumbled response from behind the wooden counter, the Sulty, her blonde hair dishevelled and plump face looking plumper, stood up. «Yah,» she mumbled. «What?»
«Breakfast for my friends here, if you please.» Murillio climbed to his feet and cast a critical, obviously disapproving eye over his clothing. The soft billowing shirt, dyed a bright green, now hung on his lanky frame wilted and beer-stained. His fine tanned leather pantaloons were crease and patchy. Sighing, Murillio stepped away from the table. «I must bath and change. As for the game, I surrender consumed by hopelessness Kruppe, I now believe, will never play his card, thus leaving us trapped in the unlikely world of his recollections and reminiscences, potentially for ever. Goodnight, one and all.» He and Rallick locked gazes, the Murillio gave a faint nod.
Crokus witnessed the exchange and his scowl deepened. He watched Murillio leave, then glanced at Rallick. The assassin sat staring down a Coll, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Sulty wandered into the kitchen, and a moment later the clanking of pots echoed into the room.
Crokus tossed his cards into the table's centre and leaned back, closing his eyes.
«Does the lad surrender as well?» Kruppe asked.
Crokus nodded.
«Hah, Kruppe remains undefeated.» He set down his cards and tucked in a napkin at his thick, jiggling neck.
In the thief's mind suspicions of intrigue ran wild. First the assassin's war now Rallick and Murillio had something cooking. He sighed mentally and opened his eyes. His whole body ached from the night's adventures but he knew he'd been lucky. He stared down at Coll without seeing him The vision of those tall, black assassins returned to him and he shivered.
Yet, for all the dangers hounding his back up on the rooftops this past night, he had to admit how exciting it'd all been. After slamming that door behind him and quaffing the beer Sulty had thrust into his hand, his whole body had trembled for an hour afterwards.
His gaze focused on Coll. Coll, Kruppe, Murillio and Rallick. What a strange group-a drunkard, an obese mage of dubious abilities, a dandified fop and a killer.
Still, they were his best friends. His parents had succumbed to the Winged Plague when he'd been four years old. Since then his uncle Mammot had raised him. The old scholar had done the best he could, but it hadn't been enough. Crokus found the street's shadows and moonless nights on rooftops far more exciting than his uncle's mouldy books.
Now, however, he felt very much alone. Kruppe's mask of blissful idiocy never dropped, not even for an instant-all through the years when Crokus had been apprenticed to the fat man in the art of thievery, he'd never seen Kruppe act otherwise. Coll's life seemed to involve the relentless avoidance of sobriety, for reasons unknown to Crokus-though he suspected that, once, Coll had been something more. And now Rallick and Murillio had counted him out of some new intrigue.
Into his thoughts came an image-the moonlit limbs of a sleeping maiden-and he angrily shook his head.
Sulty arrived with breakfast, husks of bread fried in butter, a chunk of goat cheese, a stem of local grapes and a pot of Callows bitter coffee. She served Crokus first and he muttered his thanks.
Kruppe's impatience grew while Sulty served Rallick. «Such impertinence,» the man said, adjusting his coat's wide, stained sleeves.
«Kruppe is of a mind to cast a thousand horrible spells on rude Sulty.»
«Kruppe had better not,» Rallick said.
«Oh, no, of course not,» Kruppe amended, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. «A wizard of my skills would never belittle himself on a mere scullion, after all.»
Sulty turned to him. «Scullion?» She snatched a bread husk from the plate and slapped it down on Kruppe's head. «Don't worry,» she said, as she walked back to the bar. «With hair like yours nobody'd notice.»
Kruppe pulled the husk from his head. He was about to toss it down on the floor, then changed his mind. He licked his lips. «Kruppe is magnanimous this morning,» he said, breaking into a wide smile and setting the bread down on his plate. He leaned forward and laced together his pudgy fingers. «Kruppe wishes to begin his meal with some grapes, please.»
CHAPTER SEVEN
I see a man crouched in a fire who leaves me cold and wondering what he is doing here so boldly crouched in my pyre:
Gadrobi Epitaph Anonymous
This time, kruppe's dream took him out through marsh gap along South Road, then left on to Cutter Lake Road. Overhead the sky swirled a most unpleasant pattern of silver and pale green. «All is in flux,» Kruppe gasped, his feet hurrying him along the dust barren road. «The Coin has entered a child's possession, though it knows it not. Is it for Kruppe to walk this Monkey Road? Fortunatetly Kruppe's perfectly round body is an example of perfect symmetry. One not only born skilled at said balance, one must learn it through arduos practice. Of course, Kruppe is unique in never requiring practice in anything.»
Off in the fields to his left, within a circle of young trees, a small fire cast a hazy red glow up among the budding branches. Kruppe's sharp eye could make out a single figure seated there, seemingly holding its hands the flames. «Too many stones to turn underfoot,» he gasped, «on this rock rutted road. Kruppe would try the ribbed earth, which is yet too green with the season's growth. Indeed, yon fire beckons.» He left the road at approached the circle of trees.
As he strode between two slim boles and stepped into the pool of light the hooded figure turned slowly to study him, its face hidden in shadow despite the fire before it. Though it held its hands in the flame, they withstood the heat, the long, sinuous fingers spread wide.
«I would partake of this warmth,» Kruppe said, with a slight bow. «So rare within Kruppe's dreams of late.»
«Strangers wander through them,» the figure said, in a thin, oddly accented voice. «Such as I. Have you summoned me, then? It has been a long time since I walked on soil.»
Kruppe's brows rose. «Summoned? Nay, not Kruppe who is also a victim of his dreams. Imagine, after all, that Kruppe sleeps even now beneath warm blankets secure in his humble room. Yet see me, stranger, for I am cold, nay, chilled.»
The other laughed softly and beckoned Kruppe to the fire. «I seek sensation once again,» it said, «but my hands feel nothing. To be worshipped is to share the supplicant's pain. I fear my followers are no more.»
Kruppe was silent. He did not like the sombre mood of this dream. He held his hands before the fire yet felt little heat. A chill ache had settled into his knees. Finally he looked over the flames to the hooded figure opposite him. «Kruppe thinks you are an Elder God. Have you a name?»